Reality Shock
by A-Thieving-magpie
Summary: Inspired by the fanvid 'Shell Shocked.' John's reality is shattered in an evening. He discovers that his mind has completely invented Sherlock Holmes and he's been living and working with a hallucination, he can't trust what he sees and doesn't know what is real and what is not. Is Sherlock a figment of John's imagination? Is John mad or is there something darker going on..?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1.**

_"How long has this been going on John?" His Therapist leaned forward in her chair. _

_Rain spattered against the window outside._

_"I don't know." He said quietly._

_ It was the truth, he'd lost all sense of time since he'd come back from Afghanistan a year ago...or was it two years? It could have been last month for all he knew._

_"I moved in with Sherlock soon after I got back and..." his voice caught in his throat_

_"No John, you didn't move in with anyone."_

_She must have seen the anger in his eyes because she moved back slightly before letting the next bombshell fall._

_"There is no Sherlock Holmes." _

A Week previously

"I'm going out, need anything from the shop?"

John rounded the corner from the hall into the kitchen, slipping into his coat as he asked his flatmate the question. Sherlock was perched on a stool by the countertop looking through his microscope.

"Not unless Tesco have started selling human blood..." Sherlock muttered to his experiment

"Well, not since the last time I checked." John replied "Right, I'll be off then."

Sherlock looked up and smiled "I'm going to Bart's later. Need to run some tests so I won't be in when you get back."

"Ok."

John walked the short distance to the Tesco express down the street with his hands in his pockets and head down against the wind. The weather had been terrible lately; he'd decided to go out to the shop because the downpours of the last three days had settled down at last. It was nearly dark and the sun had sunk below the buildings on the other side of Baker Street, leaving a cold chill in the air.

He got milk, bread, beer and some other groceries – determined that this time they wouldn't be usurped from the fridge in favour of human remains. He decided against using the self service checkouts due to previous disagreements with them, instead placing his items on the conveyer belt to go through the a cashier's desk that was run by a human instead of a machine.

As John got to the front of the queue and his purchases rolled forward to the cashier he found his lower jaw hanging slack.

"Mrs Hudson!?"

"Oh, hello John. How are you today? That will be seven twenty- one please." His landlady smiled at him...from behind the till...wearing the uniform of the shop with a name badge...as she put his groceries in a carrier bag.

"Wha...what are you doing here?"

Mrs Hudson's smile dropped and she looked at John with a concerned expression.

"I work here."

When John was unresponsive she continued,

"You come in every Wednesday and Saturday and buy the same things. You have done for the last year."

John's heart felt like it had dropped to his feet.

"No...No I don't. You're my landlady. Me and Sherlock...you own 221B Baker Street?" His voice got quieter as the sentence progressed, and he realised there was a queue of people behind him craning their necks to see what the fuss was about.

Mrs Hudson laughed, "Own a flat on Baker Street? Oh I wish! The prices must be hideous. No you've got me confused with someone else dear."

John ran a hand through his hair.

"You don't know me? You don't know Sherlock? Is this...is this a joke? You were downstairs when I left! In...In your kitchen making... _tea._"

He was almost shouting. He didn't care about the rubberneckers anymore, something weird was happening.

The security guard behind the desk by the door looked as if he was going to come over, but Mrs Hudson held up a hand to him then turned to John.

"I don't know anyone called Sherlock...what a silly name. I'm going to ask you not to be so loud. There are other customers waiting, Seven twenty-one please." Mrs Hudson's voice was controlled and harsh, so different from the sweet old lady John had come to know.

People in the queue were whispering and muttering, shaking their heads.

John got his wallet out in a daze, handing over a ten pound note. Mrs Hudson put the change in his palm and then saw him off with a curt "Good evening."

John walked down the pavement, every footstep feeling heavier than the last. His head was in a mess; this was like some strange, twisted dream. His carrier bag swung from his left hand as he trudged on, trying to make head and tail of what Mrs Hudson had said. None of it made any sense, she was still in Baker Street when he left and he hadn't been to that shop for nearly a month – he definitely didn't go there twice a week like she had said.

His pace quickened as he rushed back to the flat, wanting to find Mrs Hudson pottering around in her downstairs flat. Wanting to prove that what had just happened was a figment of his imagination, a hallucination, anything. It couldn't be real. Sherlock had probably drugged him in an experiment or something stupid.

John unlocked the door and rushed up the stairs to 221B shouting,

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

But he wasn't there. There was just the lounge, looking odd without the outline of Sherlock draped across the sofa in a sulk, pacing up and down by the mirror ranting, or poised on the edge of his chair in thought.

A deep, familiar voice floated to the forefront of John's mind

_'I'm going to Bart's later. Need to run some tests so I won't be in when you get back...'_

Damn. So he couldn't consult the consulting detective on the events of the evening. He wouldn't be back until late – he always crashed in at some ungodly hour when he went to the lab, or stayed there the whole night until Molly called in the morning recommending that John convince him that he needed sleep.

There was still the Mrs Hudson issue to be dealt with, John dumped the carrier bag on the side, rushed down the stairs and knocked on the door of 221A. It was closed, that was unusual. After not getting a reply he knocked again, rapidly "Mrs Hudson? Mrs Hudson?"

The door opened at last.

A fat, balding man stood in the doorway with one hand leaning on the doorframe. He was wearing only dirty jeans and glared down at John.

"Whadayu want?" He grunted, his chins wobbling as he talked.

John was taken aback; this was most certainly not Mrs Hudson. Looking past his elephantine frame he saw that the flat that he knew to be decorated with flowers, patterned wallpaper and doilies was full of rubbish. Empty pizza boxes and grimy surfaces were all John could see. The layout was entirely different than John remembered; it was like it wasn't even the same flat.

"Sorry, um...didn't mean to disturb you its just, do you know a Mrs Hudson? The lady that lives here?"

"I ain't never heard of a Mrs Hudson. I've lived here five years mate, just me. You've got the wrong address I can't help you."

With that the door swung shut, slamming centimetres away from the tip of John's nose.

John walked slowly back up the stairs to his own flat, feeling like his whole world was crumbling around him. His breathing was too fast; he tried to slow it down – doctor's instinct telling him he was going to have a panic attack if he wasn't careful.

He collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing his face with his hands. There had to be an explanation. There had to be.

When he looked up Molly was standing in front of him.

"Molly? What? How did you get in?" He gasped.

It was Molly – but then it wasn't. She was too pale and staring blankly at the wallpaper behind his head.

"Sherlock doesn't like my lipstick...makes my mouth too small...Jim wasn't my boyfriend...I ended it...I made coffee...I don't count..." She released a torrent of words related to things John had heard before, repeating herself like a robot, talking too fast – like Sherlock would in the middle of one of his deductions.

"Molly, are you okay?" John stood up and made to put a hand on her shoulder, but then she was gone. Vanished. It was as if she'd just dissolved into thin air.

John blinked a few times, trying to get things straight.

He looked dumbly at his hand.

"Molly?" he said tentatively to the empty room

"Sherlock I need you to come home, now. I don't know what the hell is going on. Mrs Hudson isn't in her flat and Molly just disappeared...please Sherlock...I don't know what is happening...call me when you get this."

He terminated the voicemail then leaned back against the wall by the door. It was the third message he'd sent in the space of five minutes, each one sounding more and more desperate. Why wasn't Sherlock picking up? He became aware that he was sweating, maybe he was ill? Maybe he had a fever and his brain was just playing tricks on him? John pulled off his oatmeal coloured jumper and threw it in a bundle on the floor, the flat suddenly felt boiling hot.

He sank down the wall until he was sitting on the floor and forced himself to take slow breaths, his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest.

"Oh dear, John...what's happened John?" It was Mycroft's voice that rang in John's ears; the irritating enunciation of every syllable rattled its way through his skull... yet Sherlock's brother was nowhere to be seen.

"Stop it...Stop it... I know you're not there Mycroft" John said to his knees as he pressed his forehead against them. He was genuinely terrified now, what was happening to him? Hearing voices that weren't there was not a good sign and then there was the ghost Molly and the Tesco Mrs Hudson...

Tears began to fill the edges of John's eyes and he grabbed at his hair trying to stop himself hyperventilating. The rational part of his brain was telling him there had to be some reasonable explanation...there had to be.

Soon everyone he knew was starting to talk over each other in his head, their chatter filling his brain and he couldn't stop it. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sherlock, Donovan, Harry. Even Anderson put in an appearance and was shouted down by Sherlock's voice. He couldn't tell what they were saying; they were just talking and talking on and on. They got louder and louder, John could barely think, they were painful to listen to. His head felt like it was going to explode.

John ended up rocking backwards and forwards, grasping either side of his head and trying in vain to pull the voices out. Tears streamed down his face,

"Stop it, stop it, stop it, now! ...oh GOD PLEASE! GET OUT!"

* * *

**A/N**

**Thankyou for reading, next chapter will be up soon! I'm really excited about this one as it's such an interesting concept to play around with. Reviews much appreciated - even if you hated it :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

Dr. Selman yawned as she walked into the room of the latest addition to the corridor she'd been assigned. It had been a tiring week and she was nearly at the end of her eight hour shift. Had it not been for John Watson she would have been able to knock off early. She pulled a pen out of the bun on the back of her head, and then checked the chart at the end of the bed making various ticks and crosses. It was ten am and he was still asleep, probably due to the large quantity of sedative they'd had to give him to stop him insisting that the walls were moving.  
The downstairs neighbour had called 999 after hearing screaming coming from above. When the emergency services had arrived he'd insisted that they weren't real people, started talking nonsense and tried to fight three police officers. His medical notes said that he'd been diagnosed with PTSD after returning from Afghanistan. He'd have a psychiatric assessment when he woke up, but she left him to sleep for now.

* * *

John woke up slowly, first becoming aware of the dull ache in his head and then a nagging sensation that told him that this bed wasn't his own.

"Ah you're awake. That's nice; I was starting to get bored."

John lifted his head off the pillows and turned to the sound of Sherlock's voice. He was sitting by the side of the bed on a hard-backed hospital chair, his hands tapping the armrests rhythmically.  
John sat up and surveyed his surroundings, not recalling how he'd got there at all. The last thing he remembered was curling up in a ball on the floor tearing at his own hair, and then the police rushing in asking if someone was being murdered or something.

It was a typical hospital room with the overly-clean smell that John recognised from his own medical training days. The sheets and walls were slightly off white. He looked down and saw a cannula in the crook of his elbow, slowly delivering clear fluid into his veins, there were also sticky electric pads on his chest connecting him to a machine that bleeped every second. Apart from that there was no evidence that he was physically hurt – that was good.

"Sherlock...what the hell happened?"

"Well it appears that you had a panic attack, didn't know what was what and you were rolling around on the floor screaming for some reason. Maybe you wanted some variation on your normal 'nights in?'" Sherlock said wryly, steepling his fingers together under his chin.

John didn't reply. Should he tell Sherlock about the voices and the ghost Molly? The Tesco Mrs Hudson and strange man downstairs? It was all just a part of an insane evening and he wasn't sure how much of it he'd accurately remembered. He decided that if everything was normal when they got back to the flat he wouldn't mention it

"I thought you were at Bart's, how did you know what happened?"

Before Sherlock had the chance to reply Dr. Selman knocked on the door and pushed it open.

"John Watson?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Doctor Selman; I'll be in charge of your care while you're here. How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright."

Sherlock sat silently, studying the Doctor with narrowed eyes. John prayed that he didn't reveal her life history and darkest secrets while she was in charge of what happened to him. She was pretty and had long auburn hair that was piled at the back of her head in a loose bun.

"What can you remember about how you got here?" She asked, perching herself on the end of the bed.

"I don't remember how I got here, I just remember being in my flat and then..." John sighed, "Look I'm honestly fine. I'm wasting your time here, can I go please?"

Dr Selman looked up and raised her eyebrows, her pen poised over the clipboard she'd been making notes on.

"You're fine are you?" She asked.

"Yes," he paused and looked around "where am I, what hospital is this?"

She tilted the clipboard so that John could see the logo on the back of it.

He saw the words 'Hughenden psychiatric institute' written in fancy blue writing.

"What?" John felt like a brick had just hit him in the stomach, "look there's been some mistake...I just had a panic attack - things got a bit crazy, but I'm honestly fine..."

"John. They found you rolling on the floor screaming at voices only you could hear, you said that someone called 'Molly' had evaporated into thin air..." she flipped a page on her clipboard, "then you tried to attack three police officers yelling that they 'weren't real,' and when they you got here you insisted that the walls were moving and we had no option but to sedate you."

"Ah." John gulped. "I didn't remember that bit."

He looked at Sherlock who still – surprisingly, had not interrupted them.

"Given all of that, I don't think you're 'fine' John." She said.

"It's probably just, I don't know - stress or something...when can I go home? Sherlock will make sure I'm okay." John looked at the consulting detective to confirm this.  
Sherlock was sitting with his feet up on the chair, chin on his knees and didn't even acknowledge that John was speaking to him.

Alarm bells started ringing in Dr Selman's head at this moment; they said that he lived alone. She stood up from her perch.

"Who's Sherlock John?" She asked delicately.

"We live together, he's a consulting detective and we help the police solve crimes." A thought popped into his head, "actually that's probably why I'm not in trouble for attacking those officers, he probably sorted it out with Lestrade...or Mycroft did..."

John hadn't meant for the words to come out like that and as soon as he spoke he realised how silly it would sound to the doctor. He sighed.

"Look, ask him – Sherlock tell her I'm fine." He pleaded with his friend. Sherlock simply looked at him with a strange mixture of pity and disgust on his face.

John was taken aback, what was up with Sherlock?

"Sherlock? Please..."

The ECG he was connected to was bleeping faster now.

"John, are you talking to Sherlock now?" She asked even though she knew the answer. She could see him getting more and more agitated as he talked to the chair at the side of his bed.

"Yes, what are you blind? He's sitting right th-" He cut himself off as he realised what was happening.

"Oh...oh god no." He breathed, "Sherlock...stop this!"

"John, there's no one sitting there." Dr. Selman said softly.

John saw Sherlock lean towards him, there was a nasty smirk on his face that John had never seen before...he looked malevolent. His eyes seemed brighter and his coat seemed darker – everything about him just looked..._wrong_.

John felt his heart sink.

"She's right you know" Sherlock hissed at him "I'm not real, I'm just in your head."

* * *

**A/N**

**Duun..dun...DUuuuuun! **

**Thanks for reading :) I'll update as soon as possible**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"How could I have imagined my entire life for – what, the past year or so?" John stood up and started circling the room "It doesn't make sense, none of this makes any _sense_!"

He was in a wood panelled room that had become very familiar to him over the past week. It was the only other room he'd been in apart from the bedroom he'd woken up in; apparently it was too much of a risk to let him wander. There were two armchairs, a coffee table, a sofa, a threadbare rug and glass French windows that looked out onto the gardens.

It was meant to be a homely and relaxed environment, but to John it felt like a prison.

He was supposed to meet his therapist every morning at eleven for an hour to help him get through what they called his 'elaborate fantasies and hallucinations.' They'd even gone to the trouble of drafting in Ella Thompson, the therapist he'd first seen after coming back from Afghanistan. Apparently he needed a 'familiar face' to talk to. The only familiar face John wanted to see was Sherlock's – and for Sherlock to tell him that this had all been a big mistake, that he'd sorted it out and they could go home. John had missed his first two appointments through pure stubbornness, the first time he'd pretended to be asleep and the second time he had shut himself in the bathroom. The third and fourth days had been slightly more successful – John had conceded to turn up, even if he was fifteen minutes late, half dressed and refused to say anything throughout the hour. The fifth and sixth days they'd got as far as exchanging pleasantries before the session ended in argument as John's requests to go home were repeatedly denied. It was now the seventh day, a week after he'd arrived and John was angry.

They were giving him drugs that were intended to calm him down and stop him hallucinating, they did nothing but make him sluggish and confused. Things weren't explained to him at all. John was becoming infuriated by how his requests to know what-the-hell-is-going-on were met by patronising 'you don't need to worry, calm down, just concentrate on getting better' remarks and simpering smiles.

John still didn't believe that he was getting the whole story. He was sure that the Sherlock that had been there when he'd woken up was not real and the Molly that had been in his flat wasn't real... yet he was certain there was a real Sherlock, Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft and all the other characters that he knew in his life out there. There was no way he could have invented everything.

The problem was that he couldn't find out until he got out of this place and they wouldn't let him leave.

John had stopped circling the room and was standing in the corner; Ella was sitting observing him quietly as he ran his fingers along the ridges in the wood panelling.

"So you people are saying that I invented Sherlock, is that right?" He said to the wall.

"Do you think you invented him?" was her reply, trying to get John to talk by adding another question.

John turned from the wall.

"This isn't about what I think."

"You're in a psychiatric unit John; it's all about what you think."

He laughed drily, "Oh, I've missed this."

John walked away from the wall and sat back down in his armchair.

"You see, this is why I stopped coming to our appointments the first time. You have to be cryptic, you don't give me answers – you just question." He sucked breath through his teeth, "Maybe, you know, what I actually _need_ is to be told the truth!"

"You think we're lying to you about your illness?" She asked

He rubbed his temples, "I don't know. I just want an explanation, and no one seems willing to give me one."

"When you came back from Afghanistan upon your discharge you were sent to me by your superiors who recognised that your wound had not just affected you physically. You had nightmares, didn't eat-"

"Yes, I know all of that. Can we just get to what's happening now?" He snapped, then regretted it immediately as he read upside down that she was scribbling 'still has difficulty talking about the war' on her notepad.

"What's happening now?" She looked up at him "Well it's my belief that you couldn't cope with your own real life when you returned so your mind created a sort of parallel world that you've been living in -"

John gave an empty laugh and raised his eyebrows, "Parallel world? What is this - Doctor who?"

"John, please try and be serious I'm trying to help you."

He watched her write 'uses humour to avoid difficult issues' on her pad and slumped back in his chair muttering "this is ridiculous."

"What I mean is that you've taken people who you know from your life – like Mrs Hudson, the lady who works in the local shop that you visit. You said that she was your landlady?"

John nodded.

"Well all these people exist in some way in your life, but your mind likes something about them and has created a fantasy universe in which you run around London solving crimes."

"I never said anything about running around London solving crimes." He felt victorious, "How do you know about that?"

It was only then that John noticed there was a laptop on the coffee table – whatever drug they were giving him it was really slowing him down. Ella picked it up and flipped open the top, after tapping in a few commands she turned it to face John.

"It's my blog." He shrugged.

"No, look again." She passed the laptop over and he settled it on his knee – it was his blog, but then it didn't look like how he'd remembered it.

"What is this?"

"It's your account on an online publishing website. You're quite popular on there – it seems everyone wants to hear about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

John scrolled down the list of stories that he'd apparently published: the Study in Pink, Blind Banker, Great Game, the smaller cases and general notes about his and Sherlock's life in Baker Street... older entries from when he'd just got back from Afghanistan.

"These aren't stories, this is my life. This is my whole life!"

Ella had watched his expression darken as he read what was on the page and when John looked up from the computer he saw the infuriating expression of pity on her face. Did she not realise what she was doing? Making him doubt everything that he knew for certain?

He placed the laptop back on the coffee table and ran a hand through his hair; could it possibly be that this wasn't all a big conspiracy to separate him and Sherlock? What if they were right? He was a doctor, but had only a basic knowledge of mental health as it wasn't where he'd chosen to specialise. Maybe he just couldn't accept that his real life was mundane and had invented it all – living in the stories that he'd apparently written.

"I want to go outside." He said.

The room felt like it was closing in on him and he needed fresh air urgently.

Apparently it wasn't such a risk to let him wander anymore as Ella nodded and gestured towards the French windows. He tugged on the handle, but it was locked. Realising this, Ella came and opened them with keys that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

John ran, aware only of the green blur between his feet and that Ella was standing in the doorway watching him. He lost his breath quickly – he'd definitely got out of shape since leaving the army, he stood leaning over, hands on his knees and panting.

When he'd caught his breath he looked around and the green blur merged into grass. There was a lake down the hill, but it was fenced off. Didn't want people drowning themselves then, John thought darkly. The gardens were extensive and the building was just as impressive, a converted stately home judging by the fancy architecture. The sun was shining in his eyes and he raised a hand to his forehead, noticing a bench by some trees a way to his right – next to the high barbed wire fence that spoiled the otherwise idyllic manicured landscape.

He'd sat on the bench for about half an hour, just staring at the sun's reflection on the lake, when he heard a rustling from the trees behind him. He froze, aware that if he was about to be attacked there wasn't much he could do in his pyjamas and flimsy plimsolls.

"John, don't turn around they're watching you. Just act natural." It was a voice that made John want to burst into tears, _Sherlock. _

He heard the whisper of a silenced pistol and then two thuds coming from a way off.

"Ok, we haven't got long." He heard Sherlock moving towards him and span around.

It was him alright, the long dark coat and curly black hair. He looked like he'd been in a fight; there was dried blood around a wound in the side of his head, his hair was a bird's nest and he moved awkwardly, dragging one leg behind him painfully.

John wanted to hug Sherlock and never let him go through fear of him dissolving into thin air, but he restrained himself - aware of what had happened last time he'd thought he was talking to Sherlock. He grabbed the detective's skull as soon as he was close enough; ignoring the startled expression on Sherlock's face as he held his head between his hands and stared intently at Sherlock's blue eyes trying to figure out if he was real.

After a moment he let him go and allowed tears of relief to silently fall from his eyes.

"Oh god, it really is you." 

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to the reviewers/followers of the first two chapters. Sorry this took longer than expected to write, exams etc at the moment. Chapter 4 will follow (as soon as I've written it!) and maybe then we'll get to the bottom of this mystery..._

_Please rate/review etc and thanks for reading :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The corridors of power were Mycroft's domain, where he felt most comfortable and at ease. When his umbrella was heard clicking along the marble floors a hush would descend among the government nobodies whom he employed. Civil servants increased their pace as they moved about with box files under their arms and blank faces. No one made eye contact and Mycroft preferred it that way. He could almost feel his power radiating off the walls, taste it in the air, it was tangible. Whitehall was his realm and he was the king.

But today was different. He'd always had a suspicion that his little brother would bring about his downfall; today his inkling was fast becoming reality.

It had started with a 5 am phone call that had drawn him from his four poster bed and had him rushing into work. Now he was in a particularly unpleasant meeting with Lord Ashbury, a man who made him feel about four feet tall. Quite an achievement, as Mycroft was not a man who was intimidated easily.

Ashbury was a man whom Mycroft would call an 'Ally,' an acquaintance, certainly not a friend. Mycroft didn't have _friends_. The news that he had to bear – in that god awful condescending tone of his – was the news Mycroft had suspected would come but dreaded.

"We've lost track of John Watson."

* * *

_"Watson!" the shout echoed around him, punctuated by a rattle of gunfire._

_John ran, crouching low. The sand of the desert was blowing around his face and he squinted through his goggles to see where his comrades had gone. He spotted a leg disappearing around the side of a wall and ran again, his movements made awkward by the equipment and body armour he was laden with. _

_He stopped at the low wall and felt the cold stone under his hand as he peered over the top. An explosion nearby shook the ground and John lost his footing, falling to one knee and propping himself up using his rifle. His ears were ringing as he got up again, running towards the concrete shell of a small building in the direction he'd thought they'd gone. _

_He reached the small shack and went inside, panting from the run and pumping with adrenaline. Two of his comrades were in there and they greeted each other with nods. But where were the others?_

_ A scream pierced John's thoughts before he could voice them. Then a crackle from his walkie-talkie "Man down! Man down!" _

_The noises were louder and the gunfire was coming closer. _

_"Watson, get down!"_

_"John, what are you doing!?" _

_People were shouting...another crackle of guns...he was running towards a casualty he knew he couldn't save...blood, so much of it..._

_As he held the man John could feel his life slowly slipping away, he concentrated on keeping up the pressure on the wound that was already too big. A gaping hole in the soldier's side, with a puddle of blood that John knew was too large for him to live._

_ But that didn't mean he wasn't going to try to save him._

_ John gritted his teeth._

_ He took off his outer layer of clothing, the toughened jacket that went over his chest protector and used it to stem the man's bleeding. He got it in a tight knot around the area, the khaki fabric soaking up the crimson liquid._

_"Come on...come on...you're not dying on me mate." _

_Then John felt an explosion of pain in his left shoulder._

He woke up suddenly, sitting bolt upright, eyes snapping open.

He was covered in a layer of cold sweat that made his pyjamas wet and his hair cling to the back of his goose-pimpled neck. John was breathing hard and ran his clammy left palm over his face, aware that his right hand was holding on to his opposite shoulder - exactly where his bullet scar was.

He collapsed back down on the bed, his breath coming in ragged sobs. His head hurt and his heart was pounding. John closed his eyes and repeated 'It was just a dream, you're ok' to himself, the repetition slowly calming him down.

He shuffled onto his side and opened his eyes again, suddenly aware that something seemed odd and sensing another person in the room.

"John? It's alright, it's just me." Came a voice in the dark

"Who's there?" He barked, trying in vain to see the outlines of objects through the blackness.

A lamp next to his bed flickered on and John saw his friend's familiar shape through the sudden bright light that caused spots to swim in his vision.  
When his eyes adjusted he saw Sherlock sitting in a chair by the side of the double bed, elbows resting on his knees and a flicker of concern on his face.

"Welcome back John."

John sat up, the silk duvet pooling at his waist. This wasn't the hospital...nor was it Baker Street.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock read John's confusion in his face instantly. He tried to make a friendly gesture, knowing that was what normal people did when someone was upset. He settled his face in an expression of concern and awkwardly reached out a hand to touch John's arm.

John jerked away from the hand and scrambled for the other side of the bed, his legs catching in the sheets.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"John?"

He clambered out of bed and tried to make sense of things, looking around disorientated and confused. He didn't recognise the room he was in. There was a bed with lush purple silk sheets and fancy wallpaper, bedside tables and a wardrobe, patterned white and grey wallpaper, white painted floorboards and a mirror. Catching sight of himself in the mirror John was shocked at what he saw, he looked like a ghost. He had bags under his eyes, his hair was dishevelled and he looked way too thin. He became aware that he was shivering too; his muscles were cold and felt like they were seizing up.

Sherlock had stood up, but remained where he was - silently observing John.

John blew out air and turned back to face Sherlock. His eyes were empty and his voice was like gravel when he next addressed the other man.

"You are going to tell me what the _hell_ is going on. And you're going to explain everything to me _right now." _

"John I -"

Sherlock paused. Sherlock never paused, yet here they were. John was getting more and more wound up as he watched him try and find the right words.

"John I what? John I might be real, but then I might not be? WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?" John shouted, pointing a shaking finger at the other man.

"John, you're safe. It's ok."

"NO IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT OKAY SHERLOCK. NOTHING ABOUT ANY OF THIS IS OKAY."

"John let me explain"

"Yeah, that would be nice for a change, wouldn't it? Someone explaining something to me!"

"John-"

"Jeeeesus Sherlock." He paused, turning to face the wall "give me a minute."

"Do you want me to leave?" Sherlock looked genuinely concerned now.

John was hyperventilating and Sherlock noticed his shivering was getting worse. John shook his head in reply, unable to speak through chattering teeth.

"You're cold and your blood sugar's low." He strode over to the wardrobe and started rummaging about in the lower draw.

He threw a bunch of blankets on the bed. "Shock blankets, remember?" he smirked then pointed to the bed "sit." He ordered, producing two chocolate bars from his pockets and throwing them on top of the blankets "and eat. I'll tell you everything."

John was irritated by Sherlock's mother-hen attitude but realised himself that it was what he needed. He was glowering at the other man as he sat cross-legged snuggled in the orange blankets and nibbled at the chocolate – he hadn't realised how hungry he was. Soon he'd finished the second bar and Sherlock had started talking.

"It was Moriarty." Sherlock's expression hardened, "A way to _burn_ me, by taking you and using you as a pawn in his game. It's no wonder you're confused – when I found you your system was so full of drugs it was a miracle you were still functioning. Of course Mycroft had a plan to get you out once Moriarty's game went too far and it was obvious he had no intention of ever letting you go, but by the time his people got there you had somehow done it yourself...It caused him a lot of annoyance at work. He'd set up a whole scheme to capture Moriarty, then you both went missing. I tracked you and found you wandering about in Southgate. It was a couple of streets away from where Irene keeps this flat, so I brought you here as she owes me a favour. That was two days ago, you weren't making much sense and when I showed up you said I'd helped you escape and that there were now two of me...you were very angry. Then you collapsed and-"

John waved Sherlock into silence, "Wait...wait. I was kidnapped?"

Sherlock looked surprised, a bad sign as not much surprised the detective. "What do you think happened?" he asked.

John was playing with the edge of the blanket, talking to it instead of Sherlock.

"I went to Tesco about a week ago and Mrs Hudson was there and she didn't know us...then I came back to the flat and woke up in hospital where they told me I'd invented my whole life and you weren't real. I believed it for a while. You were there when I woke up in the hospital, but it wasn't really you. Then...I can't really remember..." he wracked his brain for a moment "I was outside after I'd had a session with Ella and you came to help me get out." He looked up at Sherlock "That's it, that's all I can remember."

"You went to Tesco a week ago?"

"Yeah."

"John...that wasn't real-" he sighed and looked his flatmate in the eye "you've been gone for six months."


End file.
